


(our first kiss) went a little like this

by interestinggin



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (FIGHT ME), Alcohol, Drunken Kissing, F/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 13:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5249495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interestinggin/pseuds/interestinggin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Come on, Hawkeye,” she murmurs. Salt on her lips from tequila; she’s been licking them all night. It’s only a party, you tell yourself, ill at ease as you are in a suit and tie; a party of your team, of your friends, and it’s not like any of them are going to be judging you for drunken exploits. Or if they do, you can probably get the pictures before they get on twitter. “Let’s do it. Let’s - let’s just fucking - let’s, <i>come on, <b>kiss</b> me</i>.”</p><p>“Kate,” you say, tasting the words slurring round your mouth, “you’re drunk, sweetheart.”</p><p>“So are you,” she declares. She throws her hands up in the air, young and bright and angry and so very <i>very</i> your type.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(our first kiss) went a little like this

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for [hawkeyes squared week](http://officialhawkeyes.tumblr.com/post/100922555726/hawkeye-squared-week-starts-today-from) over on the [officalhawkeyes](http://officialhawkeyes.tumblr.com/) tumblr account, for the prompt _firsts_.
> 
> title is from [my first kiss](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AYC2FUutdKA) by 3OH!3 and kesha. i'm not even slightly sorry.

_in the back of the car_  
_on the way to the bar_  
_i got you on my lips_  
_at the foot of the stairs_  
_with my fingers in your hair_  
_baby this is **it** -_

 

She is the one who says it.

“Kiss me,” she says, breathless and a little drunk, and for a moment you aren’t sure if you misheard, if you read her lips wrongly, if she said something else, something less crazy and less screwed up and a little more respectable. She laughs, grabs the front of your shirt, pulls herself bodily closer towards you.

She says it again.

“Come  _on_ , Hawkeye,” she murmurs. Salt on her lips from tequila; she’s been licking them all night. It’s only a party, you tell yourself, ill at ease as you are in a suit and tie; a party of your team, of your friends, and it’s not like any of them are going to be judging you for drunken exploits. Or if they do, you can probably get the pictures before they get on twitter. “Let’s do it. Let’s - let’s just fucking - let’s,  _come on, **kiss** me_.”

“Kate,” you say, tasting the words slurring round your mouth, “you’re drunk, sweetheart.”

“So are you,” she declares. She throws her hands up in the air, young and bright and angry and so very _very_ your type.

You are a bad man, you think, or would do, or will do later, maybe, if you can think clearly enough. Right now you want another drink, or maybe a burger, or maybe to kiss her. It’s easy to get them confused after this much beer. One of them won’t make this worse and you hope desperately you can remember which.

“Yeah, but I - I don’t even - come on, Katie, let’s - let’s get you home, I think you’ve - ”

“Can’t go  _hooome_ ,” she snaps bitterly, but she lets you get her bag, make hasty goodbyes, look for a cab. It’s cold and she shivers under your suit jacket as you tell the driver her address, say he can drop you home after. After two blocks she grabs your arm. “ _No_ ,” she says violently. “No. Not going home.”

You want to argue, but her eyes have never been this bright before. She has stars inside her and they are all so close, so hot, they just might burn you down.

She knows herself best, you guess. You tell the driver your place. Kate falls asleep on your arm.

She drools a bit. It’s less cute than you’d’ve thought.

“Up and at ‘em, Hawkeye,” you say, hauling her bodily out of the cab. Her dress is beaded and sequinned and it scratches your hand when you touch her. Trust Kate Bishop to have evening wear that’s also an offensive weapon. Trust a Hawkeye to make herself vulnerable while she hardens her shell like a knife.

“Cliiiiiiint,” she sighs, smiling softly and ruffling your hair as you prop her up in the elevator. She looks around her, blinks a few times, catches sight of her own reflection in the mirrored doors. “What happ’ned to the party?”

“Took you home, padawan,” you say. “Ain’t in no position to be schmoozin’ right now. Regular Tony Stark, you are, when you get tipsy.” She makes this  _noise_  which is half a snort and half a laugh; erupts and waves her hand to tell you in no uncertain terms that Tony Stark, Iron Man and Billionaire, wishes he was her. “Yeah, I know, I know. You’re perfect. C’mon.”

She goes quiet. You go to take her arm, lead her to the apartment door, but she shrugs you off and stalks forward, limping a little in her stiletto heels, looking suddenly very small and even quieter. You wonder what you said and who cut her first on this one. Superheroes are all bags of bruises bound up tight and let loose on the world, and you and her more so than most.

“Am I really?” she asks softly, as you turn the key in the door.

You look at her. Open the door. Let the dog bound towards you, gleeful and besotted. “Are y’really what?”

“Perfect.” Her shoulders have slumped. It hurts you in your chest. You feel like you’ve screwed up again, but you’ve no idea how. She looks at the floor, at the walls, at Lucky, at anything but you. “Do you really think that?”

She stands there, all perfect five foot five of her, slender and pale and swaying a little as she reaches down to take off her shoes. The purple polish has chipped from one of her toenails. She drops a heel that is probably worth more than the house you grew up on onto the couch.

“Do you really think I’m perfect?” she asks again, voice a little strained.

You have no idea what to say. There is nothing you can say that would be appropriate. Not here, with the strap of her dress coming down her shoulders and her hair tumbling out when she pulls out the pins and a ladder behind her knee in a hollow that you want more than anything to know as well as she does.

So you opt for the truth.

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course.”

You try to act like it’s normal. Like she’s asked if you want a cup of coffee. Like she’s asked if you think Korea stands a better chance than Japan in the men’s recurve this year. Like she hasn’t gone pale and scared and like your palms aren’t suddenly slick and like you can’t still smell that damn tequila mingling with her perfume and her sweat.

“Oh,” she says, very quietly.

“I mean,” you say, turning away so you have the excuse of not seeing her lips move, “you’re a spoiled brat and you’re a pain in the ass when you’re drunk, Katie, but your archery’s tolerable and I guess you make a decent pot of -”

The disadvantage of this plan is that you have no warning when her hand, cold and soft, touches the back of your neck. You jump, turn around. She is there - right there - and her hand is on your cheek, and she leans forward and idiot that you are, you let her kiss you.

It’s soft. It’s small. It’s nothing much, not really, except for how it’s everything.

She smiles as she pulls away, gives you a little sheepish grin that makes her look like a kid again in the most innocent and beautiful of ways. “You aren’t,” she says.

“Well. No.”

“You’re terrible. Literally terrible. You’re a disaster zone.”

“Agreed.”

“Good.” She nods. “Just so long as we’re agreed.”

You lost track of anything but your hands on her waist a long time ago.

She takes your hands in hers - gentle, like the kiss - and slowly prises them from her body, giving them back to you like a gift. “G’night, Hawkeye,” she says, with a smile. “Don’t wake me unless there’s Doombots.”

She picks up her handbag, and strolls slowly to the bedroom. The fact that you will take the couch does not even need to be discussed. Nothing does, really, in this moment. If you discuss it, you will have to think about it. If you think about it, you will have to worry about it. Better just to keep it, somewhere quiet, and if it never happens again - 

“‘night,” you manage, staring after her, perfume wrapped around you in a haze. You have a vague feeling that you should probably take off your clothes. “Yeah,” you announce to Lucky, who is looking at you with what you assume is either pride or embarrassment, “yeah, go do that, Barton. Clothes. Pajamas. Have kiss.  _Piss_. Have piss. Do stuff.”

You beam at your dog. He cocks an ear. “Hawkeye  _kissed_  me,” you tell him. He barks, trots round in a circle, and sits on his own tail.

Somehow, you agree with him entirely.


End file.
